


here i am (stuck in the middle with you)

by yeahloads



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha Nick, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Porn With Plot, Sex Work, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 19:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18037580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeahloads/pseuds/yeahloads
Summary: Harry's a little lost. Nick helps him find his way.





	here i am (stuck in the middle with you)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt:  
> 39\. Alpha/Alpha as a pairing is commonly accepted as a kink only, a whole subsection of porn full of overly aggressive As fighting to dominate and force the weaker A into an omega-like role. So for the longest time Alpha A suppressed his want to be knotted, to be taken care of, as if it was dirty and wrong. He decides to go to an underground AA club, to get it out of his system. He hooks up with Alpha B and goes on his way, except he cant get it out of his mind and returns to the club.
> 
> Thank you for such an amazing concept! I hope I haven't strayed too far from its original intention. It was a challenge to write - but a lot of fun.
> 
> A few potential warnings: This fic contains one instance of substance abuse, recurring themes of body/gender/assignment dysphoria, and a teeny tiny bit of mildly under-negotiated kink. 
> 
> Title from: Stuck in the Middle With You by Stealers Wheel

Harry tried his first cigarette when he was sixteen and nearly coughed his lungs out for a whole twenty minutes. He tried one again when he was nineteen and drunk, after just having finished with his first ever client. He coughed then, too, and decided that smoking wasn’t for him. Still, for some inexplicable reason, as he leans against a damp brick wall and tries to be casual, his fingers are twitching like he needs a drag, even though it’s been six years since the last one.  
  
The street is in an odd spot — tucked away and only found if you’re specifically looking for it. The facade looks incredibly ordinary. Just a black metal door surrounded by brick. No sign to even hint at what’s inside. But Harry knows.  
  
He came here for a reason, and yet, he can’t bring himself to actually go in. His stomach feels like an angry orange lava lamp with thick goop swirling around, the sensation overall unpleasant. There was a take-away place that he passed on his way here, and he regrets not stopping to have something for dinner first. But he’d worried that trying this with anything other than an empty stomach would leave him being sick.

It all seems a bit moot now.

His feet carry him without his permission, first past the main entrance, and then further inside and down a dimly lit hallway. There’s no one in it, just wall lamps with red bulbs, perhaps to add ambiance. It seems a bit cliché, really. But it doesn’t stop Harry from raising his fist to knock on the door at the end of the hall.  
  
He can hear the dull thump of bass coming from inside, something deep and slowly-paced that reverberates through his chest.  
  
A thick-armed bouncer opens the door and then the full sound of the music wraps around his ears, louder now. His breath gets caught, all of his senses being assaulted at once when the club is revealed to him.  
  
Unphased, the bouncer looks Harry up and down, not appraisingly in the way he’s used to, but instead almost disinterested. “ID?” he asks.   
  
Harry fumbles his wallet out of his back pocket. He tries to hide the way his hands shake as he flips it open to show off his license, with the awful picture of himself that he hates looking at.  
  
Satisfied that Harry is of age, the bouncer lets him walk by and then Harry is on his own.  
  
He stands there for a moment, simultaneously awash with relief and hesitation.  
  
For a sex club, there really isn’t a lot of sex taking place, at least out in the open. Most people are chatting with each other, pockets of intimate one-on-one conversations happening among larger groups.  
  
There’s a bar along the back wall, where Harry knows that all of the liquor on the shelves is just for show. In contrast with the lighting just outside and in the hall, the main room is lit with subtle blues and purples, everything still moderately dark. But after just a few minutes, Harry’s eyes have already adjusted.  
  
He makes a beeline for the bar, navigating past throngs of people and crowded tables, not missing the way pairs of eyes track him as he passes. There are too many smells — too many bodies mingling together in such a closed space, sweat and underlying arousal making the air thick — but the overwhelming and unmistakable scent of alpha makes something in Harry’s gut clench.  
  
There’s a free stool that Harry manages to snag, sitting down heavily and letting out a long breath, actively forcing his shoulders to drop. He’s flanked by a woman on his right, her head bent towards another woman while they talk in voices too low for Harry to make out any of their conversation. To his left is a person who looks to be about the same age as himself, with short cropped hair and big wide-frame glasses. They nod their head at Harry in acknowledgement, and that’s that.

The bartender, Harry notices, moves like a human whirlwind; grabbing and stacking glasses, pouring with a gentle flick of his wrist, spinning almost as a dancer would as he moves behind the bar in a controlled sort of chaos. He’s tall and lean with a big smile that matches his big face. He’s talking to one of the guests, a naughty twinkle in his eye as he says, “I’d love to, darling, but you know I’m not on the menu. Another Blue Shoe?”

Harry’s palm has left a wet mark on the bartop from the way he’s sweating. He discreetly wipes it away with the sleeve of his shirt. Then the bartender is in front of him, casually tossing a rag over his shoulder before placing a napkin down.

“Hiya. Can I get you a drink, love?”

Harry looks down and then left to right, searching for a menu of some kind. He hesitates, fishmouthing. “Uhm. What— uh. What can I have?”

He winces immediately. This guy must be wondering how Harry managed to get in, because he sounds about thirteen. _What can I have?_ Harry’s usually good at talking — makes a living off it, practically. But he gets one glimpse of chest hair peeking out from a decidedly rather unbuttoned button-down and Harry suddenly can’t communicate effectively.

The bartender either doesn’t notice Harry’s struggle or chooses to ignore it, smoothly listing off some of the more popular mocktails that they offer.

Harry gets even more tongue-tied. The names sound interesting, but he has no idea what’s in any of them. His face must be showing something he can’t control, because the bartender smiles amusedly and places a short, clear glass on the counter.

“Do you like orange juice?” he asks, pulling a bottle from somewhere under the bar top that Harry can’t see.

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

The bartender nods as well. “Good.”

Into a shaker, he dumps some ice cubes and pours a bit of orange juice and a splash of red syrup. With his eyes on Harry’s, he puts the lid on and uses both hands to mix the contents with a noisy flourish. He pours everything into the glass he presented earlier and tops it off with something clear and carbonated from the tap, with a black straw and a cherry for decoration.

He slides the glass towards Harry. “Pomegranate sunrise,” he says. “With, well. A lack of any real pomegranate. But it’s good, I promise.”

Harry takes a small sip, and then another. It _is_ good. Sweet and tangy.

The bartender is already working on another drink, but he keeps glancing at Harry, eyes asking a silent question.

Harry finds that he doesn’t need to force his smile. “It’s delicious,” he says, pitching his voice a bit louder, since the song pumping through the speakers has changed, something loud and jackhammer-like.

The bartender winks and flits away in a flurry of long limbs and bouncy tousled hair, greeting new guests at the other end of the bar.

Nursing his drink, Harry mostly keeps his eyes to himself. Clubs, no matter what type, are always a bit overstimulating. This one is no different. If anything, it’s more so.

If he glances around quickly, everything seems to be normal; people laughing together, people in corners or at tables trying and failing to be discreet as they kiss and paw at each other with loose limbs, bodies moving and swaying together on the dancefloor. Nothing amiss. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except, if he looks more closely, really listens, lets himself scent the air around him, it’s not very normal at all.

He’s certain that everyone in the room is an alpha. He’s been steadfastly ignoring the way it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his body’s natural reaction. One that makes him feel confused, ashamed, and excited all at once.

What’s missing here is the tension that usually accompanies so many alphas together in close quarters. There’s no competition. No one to fight over — except maybe who gets to have who first.

The underlying sexual charge that’s filling the space is almost stifling, but in the best way. Harry’s skin is heated, and not just from the temperature.

There are two men not far away from him, both relatively tall and handsome, with their faces pressed close together. Harry can’t hear them, nor can he read their lips to catch what they’re saying. But he doesn’t really need to understand; the lines of their bodies and their postures do all of the talking. How open to each other they are, standing with their knees touching, curved towards one another like they’re being pulled by magnets. One of them, the brunette, smirks and fists his hand in the back of the other man’s hair, giving a sharp tug.

Harry feels a phantom sensation on his own nape, something shivery running down the length of his spine. He averts his eyes quickly, even though he wants nothing more than to keep watching.

He’s seen it in porn plenty of times; his search history is more revealing than he’d probably like it to be. But he can only recall seeing two alphas together like this in real life one other time. Perhaps he’s seen other people who are… _involved_ in one way or another, but they’re never so open about it.

Which is why he’s here. Why _all_ of these people are here.

In one swift gulp, Harry finishes his drink and places it back down on the bartop.

He glances at the two men from before. From what Harry can tell in the dim light, the brunette has a hand shoved down the back of the other’s pants while he grinds against his thigh. It’s almost painful, the way heat bubbles up in Harry’s pelvis at the sight of it, his dick instantly half hard behind the zip of his jeans.

Blushing fiercely, he tears his gaze away for a second time, reroutes his attention to the rest of the club. He came here for a reason — one that’s becoming less and less clear the longer he sits here, seemingly glued to his seat. An idealized version of himself would’ve walked in and immediately found someone to take him to one of the back rooms that he knows exist. But this current version of Harry isn’t sure what he wants anymore. Outside of his broader, objective desires, he doesn’t know if he can do the groundwork to find a casual hookup right now.

While scanning the crowd, he sees what he thinks is a familiar face. But — no. That can’t be right. This bloke, who’s narrower and has ears that stick out more, looks alarmingly like one of Harry’s past clients.

Except Jonathan would never be at this club, because Jonathan is an omega who paid Harry to fuck him through his heat. Harry had never done that before, with a client or otherwise, and evidently neither had Jonathan, who wanted to know what it was like. Any apprehension Harry might have had disappeared when he was handed five hundred quid, easy as anything.

It was awkward in a way that Harry tries to avoid. He’s under no illusions about his occupation; both he and the people that pay him know that he’s not a high class escort who deals with politicians or other wealthy businesspeople. However, he still likes to try and maintain a certain level of professionalism. It was just that in the face of doing something with a person he barely knows (something that is still regarded as an act reserved for people who love and trust each other) Harry couldn’t seem to get out of his own head for it.

He performed well enough. Jonathan seemed to enjoy himself, if the way he came multiple times for Harry’s mouth, fingers, and cock was any indication. But then again, it might have just been the throes of heat.

Harry still thinks about it — the way Jonathan had writhed underneath him, begged for Harry to pin him down and get deeper than physically possible: how he’d turned and twisted to present himself with his arse in the air and his shoulders pressed into the mattress, unthinkingly, uncaringly, free from worry of what he might look like doing that.

There were parts of Harry — instincts, maybe — that reacted the way they were supposed to, just as an alpha witnessing an omega offering themself like that. The perfume of heat hormones and the shine of wetness glinting between Jonathan’s cheeks had made Harry harder than he can ever recall being.

But there were other moments, like when Jonathan was clenching on Harry’s cock with nothing but bliss on his face (his sixth orgasm that night), that Harry felt something ugly and barbed wind its way through his chest. Unbidden, images had flashed in his head, replacing Jonathan’s face with his own, imagining himself in that same position — desperate, wanton, safe and being cared for. He remembers physically shaking himself out of it, as his rhythm stuttered and he nearly choked on the dryness of his own mouth and throat.

He’s come to terms with some things since then. Theoretical things. And now he’s here.

His dick isn’t hard anymore, just a bit tender from the whiplash of going from aroused to wilted in the span of a few minutes. He hopes that no one can smell it on him.

It’s like all of his emotions start folding in on themselves, compounding, as he twinges with embarrassment, shame, and then regret. He needs to do something. To distract himself, and damn the consequences.

For the third time, he spins in his seat and scans the crowd, setting his shoulders in his best approximation of the confident alpha posture that he’s never quite perfected.

He hopes that his flushed cheeks will work to his benefit in tandem with the way he makes his way out on the floor: a bit timid and most certainly looking like he has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. Maybe there are alphas that like that, being more experienced at… _this_ , than someone else. Showing them the ropes, molding and training them to suit their own desires.

Harry can’t empathize with that, not by a long shot. And he’s not sure that he wants someone like that for himself, but at this point, he supposes that beggars can’t be choosers.

Maybe it’s stereotypical of him, finding and approaching one of the biggest guys in the room. He’s by himself, arms folded across his broad chest, nodding his head to match the beat of the music.

Harry feels scrawny next to him, by comparison. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, overly aware of how skinny his ankles are, of the slenderness of his calves, as he manages to say, “Uh. Hi.”

The guy glances at him, not even trying to be subtle as his nose twitches, scenting. It makes Harry’s cheeks flush even darker.

“Hello,” the guy says, clearly hesitant.

Unsure as to what the protocol is here, Harry extends a hand and, with a bit of mild surprise, the guy accepts it for a shake, his brown eyes assessing Harry coolly.

Just as Harry opens his mouth to speak again, though, about to introduce himself, the guy cuts him off. Despite its abruptness, it’s not rude, or at least Harry thinks it’s not intended to be. It’s with purpose.

“So are you a breeder or carrier?”

Harry coughs to cover the noise of surprise he lets out. “Pardon?”

No one really talks like that anymore. Well, Harry thought they didn’t. And he’s not quite sure how to respond. He’s never thought about it like that before. What he wants is different.

But perhaps it isn’t very different at all. He’s never explicitly thought about _carrying_ before, and he’d be lying to himself if he said that the idea of it didn’t send a flurry of tremors through his belly just now. It’s just — he can’t do this right here, right now.

The guy makes a face that Harry can’t decipher the meaning of. “First time here?”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly. There’s no point in lying, though. “Yeah.”

With a softer voice than before, the guy leans in closer to speak over the music. “Listen, if you’re looking for someone to fuck you, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

Harry tries not to feel stung, until he puts the pieces together. “Oh. _Oh_. Sorry I’m— sorry.” He practically runs back to his thankfully still-empty seat, not stopping to look back once.

He’s such an _idiot_. He really has no idea what he’s doing. No idea how to navigate this. He doesn’t even know how to ask for what he wants, never mind make good judgement calls on who to try and _proposition_.

“Thought you’d disappeared without paying for the wonderful drink I made you. But then I saw you chatting with Dylan. Was he not up for it?” The bartender is standing in front of him again, setting down a fresh napkin, a slanty half-smile on his face.

Harry huffs a short, nervous laugh. He’s not used to this. Everyone being so frank and just saying what they mean. Even with his clients there’s a bit more song and dance, tiptoeing around instead of calling things what they are. “No. He, uhm. Wants different things. Well — no. We actually want the, uh, same thing. Which is the problem.”

“Ooh. Never a good time, that. Another drink for your troubles?”

Squirming in his seat a bit, Harry nods, thankful for the distraction. The bartender keeps glancing at Harry as he pours and mixes and sticks a straw in Harry’s new drink.

This time it’s more pink, and after a sip, Harry notes that it’s candyfloss-flavoured.

He doesn’t try his luck again, opting instead to keep his head down while he nurses another two drinks. He tries to give off a ‘Do Not Approach’ sort of vibe, to keep his ego intact after its earlier battering.

It seems to work, because aside from a few glances from the revolving cast of other club-goers that occupy and eventually leave the seats flanking him, no one else speaks to him — except for the bartender, who Harry learns is named Nick.

Nick introduces himself when Harry is one of three people left at the bar, and the club finally seems to be winding down.

Harry feels a bit like he’s back in school, when he’d already finished his test but still waited until everyone else had turned in their tests before anxiously making his way to the front of the room to deposit his own on the teacher’s desk. He’s not entirely sure why he’s still here, but here he is.

Nick, Harry discovers, is very chatty. But not the type of chatty where the other person can’t get a word in edgewise. He just has lots of funny, interesting things to say, all while giving Harry ample opportunities to contribute more than simple, one-word answers. However, Harry likes Nick’s voice, so he lets him do most of the talking.

“And we all woke up on the beach, not a single shoe between us, and the only thing in my pocket was a handful of gum wrappers. No key card. Nothing. Lost my wallet and everything. The front desk probably thought we’d lost our minds.”

Harry chuckles, feeling warm and settled. Nick is cleaning as he talks, absentmindedly so, seemingly not paying attention while he wipes and stacks glasses. Harry would offer to help, as he’s not enjoying just sitting idly, but that would mean he’d have to focus his attention on things that aren’t Nick’s long fingers or the nice skin of his neck that he wouldn’t mind—

“Another drink, love?” Nick asks.

Tipping his glass from side to side so that the remaining ice shifts around, Harry shakes his head. “No thank you. I’m good for now.”

Nick quirks his mouth, his tone curious and sympathetic. “Long day?”

Harry snorts. “Yeah. Guess so.”

He woke up later than he usually does, after sleeping right through his alarms. That set him off kilter right away. Then he missed the train on his way to lunch, where he met his friend Sarah. And after that, he went home and paced around his apartment for roughly six hours, debating whether or not he should come here tonight or go out and see what type of money he could make.

To avoid explaining all of that, he asks, “So when did this place start running?”

Like he’s reading from a mental catalog FAQ, Nick says, “Unofficially established in 1972 by a handful of people. Real word of mouth stuff. It didn’t open doors to the public until ‘76.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know it’s been around that long.”

Nick smiles warmly and it makes Harry feel like he’s in on some type of joke. “Most people don’t. Or if they do, they try their best not to acknowledge it. There's that show on telly. What’s it called? Double 'A'? About those two alphas.” He’s talking with his hands, all big sweeping gestures and flaps of his wrist. “That’s all fine and dandy, but no one wants to think about us, like, getting married to one another or stuff like that. Because obviously we can't keep our bits to ourselves and want to fuck anything that moves. Never mind places like _this_.”

Harry sits up a bit straighter in his seat, leans forward, a sudden burst of energy surging through him. “Yes! _Exactly_. It’s fucking ridiculous. Like, those stereotypes are such _bullshit_. You grow up thinking that things are only supposed to be one way, and — for, uhm. For some people, it makes it super hard to realize that things can be... different.”

Nick smirks knowingly and it makes the tips of Harry’s ears hot.

“Yes, it does make it difficult for _some people_ , doesn’t it?”

He’s teasing Harry, but not unkindly. It feels a lot like commiseration, like relatability. Harry instantly drops the walls he was hastily building around himself and relaxes.

“Work can make it extra difficult. When most of the people who… who _hire you_ , want you to take control and hold them down. Hardly ever the other way around. But then that’s not the same, either. When it’s for money.”

Harry picks at the skin around his thumbnail as he watches realization bloom across Nick’s face. “Yes. I can see why that might complicate things,” he says lightly. He doesn’t look particularly shocked. Nor does he look disappointed. If anything, he’s looking at Harry more intently now, like he’s a puzzle to be solved.

Harry can’t deny that he enjoys it.

“Seriously, what’s so wrong with wanting to get fucked every now and again?” Harry asks. It feels good coming out of his mouth. He’s said his fair share of filthy things on the job, but this is his first time being verbally honest about himself. He finds that he likes that honesty. He also likes the way Nick doesn’t flinch, just smiles even wider.

Nick shrugs, raising his brows. “Nothing wrong with that.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to add something, but shakes his head instead.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry says, “What?”

“Hm? Nothing. I forget myself sometimes.”

Nick is needed elsewhere at the bar, so he dashes off to deal with other customers, leaving Harry to sit in wonder.

He tries to be subtle, watching Nick work, but he’s not sure he pulls it off. Nick, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind very much. Every few minutes, while he pours people’s drinks, his gaze catches on Harry’s and lingers.

It’s like a game of cat and mouse, but Harry — the mouse — wants to be caught.

He sits there longer than he’d like to admit. He doesn’t even know when Nick’s shift ends, or if Nick would even consider entertaining Harry like that, but he wants to try. He has to try.

So he keeps waiting, until the steady trickle of people making their way home turns into the club being near-empty.

Nick wipes down the entire bartop and sweeps, still intermittently glancing at Harry from under long dark lashes. Harry is quietly pleased, but he keeps it mostly to himself, ducking his head to bite down on his smile and hide his pink cheeks.

After Nick puts the broom away, he comes back over and stands in front of Harry. “Last call was an hour ago,” he says. He doesn’t seem mad though, if the way he’s grinning is any indication.

Sheepishly, Harry ducks his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Nick is exactly the type of alpha that Harry wishes he could be. The way he holds himself, confident but not cocky. He meets Harry’s eyes and holds his gaze, steady and open. He tips his head and says, “Wanna go for a walk with me? See the real glamorous side of club operation?”

Harry swallows. His blood starts pumping faster, with both excitement and nerves. He nods, though, and follows Nick through a back door that he’s certain he’s not supposed to be going through. Nick is carrying a heavy-looking black trash bag, leading the way down a nondescript hallway and then outside, into an alley.

There’s a dumpster to the right, and that’s what Nick lifts and heaves the bag into while Harry stands there, very unsure of what to do with himself.

“Lovely back here, innit?” Nick has both hands on his hips, still wearing that same grin.

Harry has a brief flash of panic, thinking ‘Oh God, I’m about to be murdered.’ But then Nick is stepping forward and into Harry’s space, placing a hand on his hip and looking at Harry’s mouth with a question hanging in the air between them.

With a shaky inhale, Harry nods twice, very quickly, before he loses his nerve.

Nick’s mouth is warm. Just a few seconds of a firm press and Harry is certain that his knees are going to turn to liquid. He can feel Nick breathing through his nose against Harry’s upper lip, can feel the rough stubble that’s just ever so slightly scraping against Harry’s skin.

He lets Nick be the director, makes himself slack but not lifeless. When Nick opens his mouth, Harry opens his own in turn, lets Nick feel out the ridges of his teeth with his tongue.

It’s only been a minute or so and Harry is panting. He never — he usually has much more control over himself. Without even thinking, he’s pawing at Nick’s shoulders, trying to get as close as possible, pressing his hips forward into the scant amount of space keeping their bodies separated.

Nick makes a sound into Harry’s mouth, something deep and full of want that has Harry ready to drop to his knees. He’s good at giving head — has been told by many, whether it be genuine or not, that he has the best mouth in Britain. Maybe Nick might appreciate his fancy tricks, too.

But Nick evidently has other plans. He backs Harry up against the exterior wall of the building, rough brick making solid contact with Harry’s shoulder blades in a delicious bite. He moans without meaning to, and Nick pulls back for a moment.

“Okay?”

Harry blinks, nearly dazed, and brings Nick back to his mouth with a firm hand on the back of his neck.

Pinned between Nick and the wall, Harry is trapped in the best way. Slowly, while biting down gently on Harry’s bottom lip, Nick brings himself closer, so that they’re perfectly aligned from shoulder to groin.

Even through two layers of denim, Harry can still feel Nick’s hardness, and is sure that Nick can feel his own. The steady pressure of it has Harry’s whole body thrumming with _more, more, more_.

Suddenly, Harry’s wrists are being pinned against the brick behind him, Nick’s fingers curled around them and holding them there. He asks, “Is this okay?”

With his chin lifted high, shoulders relaxed, and his hands perfectly limp, Harry says, “Yes. _God_ , yes.”

At Nick’s answering smirk, a flash of electricity shoots up Harry’s spine. And then Nick says, “I thought you might be the type,” before scraping his teeth over the spot under Harry’s jaw where his pulse is hammering under his skin.

His cheeks heat fiercely. Has he really been that obvious? Is he as transparent as he feels sometimes? It’s like he might as well have a flashing billboard across his forehead letting everyone know that he’s not right — that he’s a sad excuse for an _alpha_.

Nick doesn’t seem to be burdened with the same problems as Harry. Which is why Harry is distracted enough that he can’t think too hard about what Nick has said, focused instead on the way Nick is wiggling one of his thighs into the space between both of Harry’s, pressing up firmly and making him gasp.

Harry immediately grinds down, seeking more friction, but Nick tightens his hold on Harry’s wrists and makes a _tsk_ sound. His first reaction is to fight back, push against Nick’s hands and test the boundaries. But something else, a part of himself that he’s ignored and ignored, that’s been tucked away like a forgotten plaything, gives him pause.

He forces himself to stop moving, going against instinct and everything he’s been forced to learn over the years. It feels good, giving up control. He doesn’t have to think and can just let himself _be_.

It’s probably risky doing this with a complete stranger, but Harry considers himself to be a good judge of character. He trusts Nick already.

Nick maps the planes of Harry’s neck with his lips and teeth. He lets go of Harry’s wrists, but gives him a look that suggests he keep them where they are. With his now-free hands, Nick can reach up under Harry’s t-shirt; can slide his fingertips over Harry’s soft, quivering belly; can thumb at the button of Harry’s jeans.

Harry closes his eyes before he vibrates out of his skin. But even without the sight of Nick drawing his zip down, the sound he hears Nick make as he feels out the shape of Harry’s cock through his underwear is still enough to turn his brain to mush.

Nick doesn’t otherwise comment, like some people might, about how big Harry is, how thick. He just pulls Harry out through the flap of his boxer briefs and gives a loose stroke from base to tip.

It takes all of Harry’s remaining strength to stay standing. He wishes briefly that they weren’t doing this out here; that he could lie down and stretch out, let himself be given over totally to sensation, and not the nagging reminder to make sure he’s still vertical.

The rhythm Nick starts is slow and easy, teasing almost. It’s both not enough and too much. On every upstroke he twists at the top in a move that rivals some of Harry’s own skills. At the base, he squeezes where Harry’s knot forms.

“Nick,” Harry whispers, voice tapering off into a whimper as Nick tightens his grip.

He nips at Harry’s earlobe. “Yes?”

All of the things that Harry could say get caught in his throat. He can’t form words, doesn’t know how to communicate the jumbled mess of his thoughts, words rattling around his skull — faster, harder, softer, gentler. It’s all confusing and in direct opposition with his body, which seems to have wants and needs of its own.

His hips keep moving without his permission, oscillating between tilting up and arching back, unsure if they want to get away from Nick’s vicious grip or give into it entirely. All he can do is whine from deep within his lungs and focus on his breathing, make sure that the sounds coming out of his mouth aren’t too loud.

“Look at you…” Nick says softly, practically purring against Harry’s ear.

Harry’s arms are nearly asleep now, from holding them upright for so long. That’s what he tells himself when he wraps them around Nick’s neck, not caring that the new closeness means that Nick’s hand gets trapped between them, effectively stopping his stroking.

Nosing under Nick’s jaw, Harry truly scents him for the first time, lets it fill his sinuses and permeate his every pore. Every hair on his body is standing upright, a low growl threatening to be let out.

Harry stops fighting his internal battle; he nips at the hinge of Nick’s jaw, lets Nick pull back and grab Harry’s face with his free hand, edging into rougher territory, while he continues to give short strokes just under the head of Harry’s dick. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t ignore the part of himself that wants to break free.

It’s only then that something clicks, this heavy settling of all of the feelings that have been swirling around inside of him for so long now. Before he can warn Nick, Harry is coming all over his hand and up his own t-shirt, the first couple of spurts nearly reaching his own chest. His mouth drops open and his head tips back, eyes scrunching shut while his toes curl in his boots. It’s full body — wave after wave of bone-deep pleasure.

It takes Harry a few moments to realize that Nick is talking to him, gently kissing his cheeks and neck, his words soft. “There you go. What a good boy. Do you still have more for me?”

He doesn’t stop touching Harry until he starts to shake and whimper, twitching from oversensitivity that he likes very much. He whines when Nick takes his hand away, already adjusting Harry back into his underwear and working his zip back up. But Harry’s mouth still feels like it’s made of putty, so the protests stay half-formed on his tongue.

Suddenly, in Harry’s recovery daze, he realizes that he didn’t even try to help Nick get off. He reaches for the front of Nick’s trousers and gets a quick feel of how hard Nick is under the denim, but Nick guides Harry’s hand away.

“Let me—”

“I’m okay,” Nick says, one side of his mouth titled up in a half-smile. He kisses Harry’s cheek, right over where his left dimple forms, and takes a few steps back.

The new amount of space between them instantly leaves Harry cold. The brick behind him doesn’t feel good anymore; it’s rough even through his shirt and coat, hard and unforgiving.

Right away he starts going through a mental list of things he could have done wrong. It would make sense, that he’d fuck things up on his first go. Maybe Nick isn’t as into him as he first thought. Maybe Harry is too desperate for Nick’s taste. Or maybe Nick just doesn’t want anything to do with someone who’s been with so many different people before.

That has to be it. Nick doesn’t want someone touching him when he knows that same person is well-practiced because they suck dick for a living.

“I should get back,” Nick says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Finish closing up.”

“Yeah. Uhm. I have to get home. This was… fun.” He shakes his head at himself. _Stupid_. 

“Very fun,” Nick agrees, subtly adjusting himself. Harry wants to offer to help him out again, but refrains.

They both go back inside, following the same path they took out. Nick smiles at Harry as he ducks behind the bar, and Harry tries to not let himself get his hopes up too much.

Maybe he’ll take optimism out for a test drive.

 

***

 

It’s with a newfound pep in his step that Harry goes back to the club the following week: same day, same time. He tries to convince himself that it’s because of general intrigue, and maybe wanting to try pulling again, and _not_ because he’s hoping that Nick will be working.

A different bouncer checks his ID this time, and as soon as he’s cleared to enter, he heads to the bar, making sure to keep his gaze casual and aloof while he searches for a dark brown quiff.

As Harry slides onto one of the barstools, Nick pops up from behind the worktop, a blue bottle in hand. He’s a few paces away from Harry and chatting with an older woman with elegantly greying hair that’s pulled away from her face in a twist. They’re both laughing about something, heads tipping back, but Harry can’t hear either of them over the loud music.

Less than a minute passes before Nick finally spots him. Harry can’t help the way his stomach flutters, the way he unintentionally bites his own bottom lip.

“Hiya,” Nick says, and all of Harry’s focus narrows to his voice, remembering the things he whispered into Harry’s ear in the alley.

“Hi. You all right?”

Nick touches his own chest. “Me? Oh, I’m just wonderful. How are you?”

Harry wants to tell him that he can’t stop thinking about Nick’s hands, that he’s not sure he’d ever felt as good in his entire life than when Nick was touching him. But he settles for saying, “Good, good.”

They don’t get to talk as much, the bar filling up quickly as a large group of people come into the club at the same time, so Nick is busy, flitting around and seemingly making fast friends with everyone he comes into contact with.

Harry isn’t jealous. Or disappointed. He _isn’t_. Because that would be stupid. He’s acting like a dumb kid who’s got his first crush and has lost all sense.

So he waits. And waits. And waits. Until finally, there’s a lull and Harry has Nick’s attention again.

He doesn’t bother being subtle. That’s what’s gotten him into this whole mess, being chronically quiet about his desires. Without an ounce of grace, Harry blurts, “What are you doing later?”

Nick’s smile falters, even if it only is for a split second. Harry still notices, pretends he doesn’t feel his heart sink down somewhere between his knees.

Coolly, Nick says, “Going home. I’m absolutely _knackered_.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, uh. Me too.” Harry shreds the corner of a napkin, just for something to do with his hands, so he doesn’t have to meet Nick’s eyes. His traitorous mouth gets the best of him, though. “I just — I just thought that maybe. Like, maybe we could… you know.”

Nick pauses where he’s wiping a spot on the bartop with a rag, his eyebrows knitting together. “Could what, love?”

Harry blanches and stutters. God, he’s such an _idiot_. “Like. See each other. Like last time.”

Nick swallows, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Like a bird with its wings clipped, Harry is frozen suddenly. He’s _such_ an idiot. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he tries to speak.

“Yeah. Cool. I, uhm. I understand.”

Harry slides off of his seat, throwing down a few notes for the drinks that Nick made him, and turns to leave before his ego oozes like a cracked egg all over the floor, ready to be trampled some more.

But Nick stops him. “Wait.”

Harry takes a few seconds before he turns back around. Nick braces both hands on the bartop and leans forward. Harry holds his ground.

“Listen. You’re lovely. _Gorgeous_. You should be out there.” Nick points to the dwindling crowd of the club behind him. “Shagging all sorts of younger, fitter people. And I— I can’t risk my job like that again. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

Sharp claws try to rearrange Harry’s insides, vicious and cruel.

Nick continues, “I don’t want things to be weird. Or for you to feel like you did anything wrong. It’s me, I promise. Cliché as it is.” He rolls his eyes, playful.

Harry lets himself feel the bright pinch of his nails digging into his palms as he curls his hands into tight fists. It helps dull the ache running through the rest of his body.

“I get it,” Harry says. And he’s proud of the way his voice only shakes a little. “Goodnight, Nick.”

No one looks at him as he quickly makes his way out of the club. No one looks at him on the street, either, as he pulls his coat tighter around himself and practically stomps down the pavement in the direction of his flat.

His bedroom is still just as messy as when he left it, but it’s a refuge. One place and one bed that’s entirely his own, shared with no one. He strips off his clothes and doesn’t bother washing the day’s grime off of himself, which he’ll regret later.

Under the cover of his duvet, Harry stews in his own embarrassment and disappointment and doesn’t fall asleep until the first light of morning starts to creep in through his blinds.

 

***

 

He would never admit it, but Harry is sulking.

It isn’t uncommon for him to spend his downtime at home, not doing much of anything aside from relaxing and binge-watching Netflix series. But it’s been a little over a week since Nick brushed him off and Harry can’t seem to bounce back from it.

He knows he’s acting bratty. People get rejected all the time, especially under the circumstances of Nick and Harry’s positions. Harry respects Nick not wanting to risk his job, but Harry hates the way it makes him feel naive and used. If he could have known how things would turn out, he isn’t sure if he would actually do anything differently, but he’d like to think he might, simply for his own sake and pride.

Work is still work. Over the years, Harry has become very good at keeping his work life and his personal life separate. Or, at the very least, he’s become good at making sure that his clients don’t notice anything amiss, even when Harry feels like things are not quite right in the middle of a session. Like with Jonathan, and Andrew, and Cecily, and plenty of other people who pay him for a service and expect that service to be done well.

So he’s still been seeing people, because he has rent to pay and groceries to buy, and his feelings don’t matter very much when life keeps moving whether you want it to or not.

At home, though, Harry is free to be as moody and mopey as he pleases.

It’s after he’s been sitting in the same spot on the couch for over three hours, with crumbs all over the blanket he’s thrown over himself, his hair unwashed and oily, that he tosses around the idea of going out. 

He could text a few of his friends, see if anyone wants to get drinks or dinner. Or… he could go back to the club. Try his luck with someone else. Because he’d be lying if he said that his short tryst with Nick didn’t stoke the previously growing flames of _want_ within him: this need for sex to mean more than just something that he’s getting paid for.

In the shower he has a brief moment of doubt. While sudsing his hair, he thinks, _What the fuck am I doing_? He pushes it down quickly and finishes washing up before putting on a pair of dark jeans and his cleanest button-down shirt. After a quick spritz of cologne and double-checking that his wallet is in his pocket, Harry heads out.

Predictably for a Wednesday night, the club is dead. And there’s a different bartender working, a tall woman with sharply-drawn black eyeliner and a gap between her two front teeth. She’s brusquer than Nick, skipping the formalities altogether.

“What can I get ‘ya?”

“Just some orange juice, please.” With chagrin bubbling under his ribs, Harry isn’t in the mood for anything sickly sweet.

The bartender nods and pours him a glass before responding to another patron who’s holding up a debit card, ready to pay their tab.

Harry simply sits for a while, letting the heavy bass from the DJ booth rattle his ear drums around. He doesn’t feel like people-watching. Doesn’t feel like doing much of anything, if he’s honest.

He regrets leaving his couch and the comfort of his flat. It was stupid to come here—

“Is this seat taken?” Someone has tapped him on the shoulder and is gesturing to the seat next to him.

“All yours, mate.”

Harry looks into his half-empty glass of juice, watching the guy out of his peripherals. He’s got tattoos all over both arms, lots of black ink and space in between. The type of tattoos that Harry would love to get, if it wouldn’t interfere with his marketability.

He expects to be ignored, or at the very least, to be left alone to sit in companionable silence while he plans how long he can sit here before he heads home. What he doesn’t expect is for the bloke to angle his body towards Harry, a shy smile on his face.

“What are you drinking?” he asks.

Harry fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Orange juice.”

“Just orange juice?”

Harry nods. “Just orange juice.”

The guy hums. “You come here a lot? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

It could be a simple question, but it could also be a loaded one, too. Harry doesn’t want to admit that he’s been here three times now, and his only reason for coming back is to apparently keep getting denied.

“Couple times,” Harry says. It feels like an admission of guilt. He keeps his eyes forward.

Perhaps sensing that he isn’t going to get anywhere, the guy turns his attention to the person on the other side of him. Harry listens to them chat for a little while — nothing exciting, but as it turns out, they like the same football team — and he finishes his drink.

He goes home wishing that he hadn’t gone out at all.

 

***

 

Nick smiles when he sees him, but Harry can tell it’s cautious.

“Hiya, love.”

“Hi,” Harry says. “How’ve you been?”

It’s been a couple of weeks since Harry has been here. He tried to focus more on work, picked up extra clients in an effort to top off his savings account with a bit more money for a future trip that’s more of a pipe dream than anything. The separation seems to have been beneficial, though; he’s still apprehensive speaking to Nick like this again, but it isn’t fraught with the same level of tension as before.

Nick makes Harry his usual, places it down in front of him before he responds. “Good. Took me dogs for a walk earlier. Weather was good for it. And you?”

“All right. Work sucks, but.” Harry shrugs, trying for nonchalance.

Nick gives him a pointed look. “Sorry to hear that. I’m sure there’s someone here that might be able to make it up to you.”

Harry sips his drink. Over the rim of the glass, he holds Nick’s gaze. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

He can feel himself getting irritated. Frustration can be a hell of a motivator sometimes, but he’s not sure this situation applies. So he steers the conversation elsewhere, because the last thing he wants is for Nick to be _mad at him_.

“What type of dogs are Pig and Stinky?” he asks, when Nick returns to his spot opposite him, sorting clean glasses on the worktop.

Nick looks relieved. “ _Demons_. I’m kidding. Pig is a bull terrier, like the dog from that American store.”

“What?”

“What’s it called… Tree… no. Wal— no. _Target_ , I think it’s called.”

“Never heard of it.”

“She’s very cute. _Hates_ baths, though. But then I take her to the park and the first thing she does is roll in a puddle.”

Harry laughs. He lets Nick talk. Learns about his dogs. And then his friend Daisy, who is apparently a very good baker, but sometimes makes things that Nick wishes he never tried. And then he tells Harry about his mum. And his niece. And his friend Aimee. All of these bits and pieces of his life that Harry tucks away in his brain like a puzzle for later. He wants to know everything, and he wants to tell Nick everything in return.

He doesn’t know what it is. If it’s Nick’s voice, or his kind, open face. The way he carries himself, tall and easy and like he’s the coolest person in the room. Maybe it’s the way he listens, when Harry does have something to say, giving Harry his full attention like whatever words are about to come out of his mouth are the most important things he’ll ever hear.

It should probably scare Harry, feeling this way. But he doesn’t care. So much of his identity has been founded on holding himself back. He doesn’t want that anymore.

He’s dipped his toe and he thinks he’s ready for the plunge. All Nick has to do is say when.

 

***

 

His client cancelled on him, something about their wife being ill and needing them to stay home. It’s always jarring, to be reminded that the people he sees often have partners and families, likely people who have no idea that their loved one pays a rentboy to suck them off in the back of their big shiny black Mercedes for a hundred quid or so, depending on the day.

It always puts him in a sour mood, too. Usually, when he’s working he doesn’t think about it. But when confronted with it directly like this, he needs something else to distract himself with.

Harry has always been a creature of habit; he likes to watch the same films over and over, eat at the same restaurants, wear the same t-shirt until it’s wash worn and full of holes. But he never thought that he’d be a regular at an A/A club.

His bad mood is enough to keep him away from the bar. He doesn’t need to see Nick right now and infect him with his crankiness. So for the first time, Harry snags an empty table in the back corner, far enough away from the larger clusters of people, but not far away enough that he looks like a complete creep.

He fiddles around on his phone for a bit, checks his texts and mentally reminds himself that he needs to call his mother in the morning. His battery is dwindling, though, and he doesn’t have a charger on him. So he pockets it in case he needs it later for an emergency.

There’s no time for him to find something else to occupy himself with when he notices a group approaching him. He scans all of their faces, making sure he doesn’t recognize any of them from work, and steels himself, shifting in his seat.

The two people in front, a man and a woman, have their hands clasped together, warm smiles stretching their lips. Harry isn’t new to threesomes, or foursomes, or anything else really. But he’s not sure he’s up for that tonight.

But before he can come up with an excuse, the woman says, “Hello. You look rather lonely over here.”

Harry smiles awkwardly, his lips a thin line. “I’m all right.”

“We wanted to ask you something.”

People here can be forward, but this is new, even for Harry. “I’m sorry, but I’m not really in the mood. Like, for the whole group thing,” he says, flapping a hand.

The man, whose facial hair is dark, neatly groomed, and cropped close to his face, speaks this time. “We’re not looking for participants, really. Just people who might want to watch.”

That… changes things a bit. Harry swallows and tries not to feel slightly intimidated by the offer, as exciting as it is.

He wants to, he realizes suddenly. And why should he deny himself this, when it’s the next best thing to actually getting laid himself?

“Okay,” Harry says. “I can do that.”

In total, not counting the couple, there are three other people that are joining Harry in this voyeuristic experience. They all quietly follow as they’re led to the back section of the club, where Harry has yet to venture.

Its entrance is similar to the main hallway, dark and narrow and overall very plain, except for the various doors that flank both sides. It smells like sex back here, more pungent and acute than in the wide amphitheater of the bar and lounge.

The woman has a metal key that unlocks the second to last door on the right, revealing a small but relatively empty room. All that’s in it is a large bed with black sheets, a table, and a door that’s likely a closet of some type.

Once everyone has filed in, the main door is shut and everything starts to happen very quickly.

There’s no preamble. No real buildup. Aside from a curt, “Don’t get involved, you’re just here to watch,” no other rules or instructions are given.

Harry has no idea what to do with himself as clothes are shed without care. Would it be more or less weird if he had a chair to sit in? He settles for standing as still as possible, hands behind his back, so he can lean against the wall behind him.

The woman is saying things in the man’s ear that are too low for anyone other than him to hear, but whatever the words are, they make his mouth drop open. He’s shoved roughly onto his back on the bed, his eyes flitting between the people watching and the woman.

She’s straddling him now, but not touching, the only real point of contact being her inner thighs against his hips, hovering over his groin where his dick is already dark pink and rigid. He closes his eyes, arms down by his sides, and doesn’t move, even as she pinches one of his nipples hard enough to make Harry feel a phantom twinge of pain on his own chest.

He feels that familiar prickle on the back of his neck as a mix of scents reach his nose. It’s been with pointed effort that Harry has ignored the other people watching, keeping his eyes only on the scene in front of him. He’s not sure what the others are here for; if they’re on the side of the woman and enjoy being more dominant, if they’re on the side of the man, or if they’re simply just here for a show. No matter the reason, Harry plans on keeping to himself, even if the smell of sex and other alphas in various states of arousal are making him shift in his spot, caught between wanting to flee and revel in it forever.

The woman has the man flip over, forcing him to bare his neck and accept the vulnerability of his new position. Just as this happens, a hand brushes one of Harry’s own. The person responsible, a bloke who looks to be similar in age to him when Harry throws a cursory, automatic glance his way, immediately apologizes and shuffles further away.

Harry recognizes his wide-eyed stare. Behind his brown eyes is excitement, confusion, relief; Harry empathizes. He nods and smiles before turning his attention back to the couple.

Aside from that one brief interlude, there are no other distractions. Harry feels like he barely breathes the entire time, barely blinks, as the woman roughly does as she pleases with her partner. She moves his body like he’s a doll, adjusting him and putting him into various positions. Bent over the bed, on his hands and knees, on his back again. She pinches, slaps, grabs at his face and hips, and Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat each time.

It’s when she’s grinding down on his thigh, leaving trails of glinting wetness that are visible even from where Harry is standing, that Harry is violently and abruptly reminded of Nick.

She has the man’s arms pinned above his head, both of his wrists being held down by only one of her hands. All of the color drains from Harry’s face as all of the blood in his body pools in his pelvis. He bites his lip to stifle any sounds that threaten to surface. He pinches his own thigh, but it only serves to make his situation worse.

The woman is getting close, as far as Harry can tell. And he’s thankful; he needs this to be over soon so he can leave politely, and not make a quick exit like he wants to now.

Everyone seems to be on the edges of their proverbial seats, anticipation thick in the air. The man is still perfectly quiet, a deep red love bite fresh on the side of his neck, while he watches intently as the woman takes exactly what she wants from him. With a final moan, she jerks and shudders, her rhythm faltering as she comes, and leaves pink scratches down the man’s chest as she rides out the last few aftershocks.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, and all of the people watching, Harry included, don’t move a muscle.

It isn’t until she turns to them and says, “You’re free to leave now,” in a tone that means it’s not a suggestion at all, that everyone who’s been watching turns to go.

Harry is the first out the door, practically sprinting down the hall, despite how uncomfortable it is with how tight his jeans are now.

The man was still hard; he wasn’t even touched once there for the entire duration. Harry never took his coat off when he first got to the club, and he’s thankful for that now. He tucks it tighter around himself as he steps on the pavement outside, cool air caressing his cheeks. It only helps a little, though, as he thinks about what might be happening in that room now, if the man won’t be allowed to come at all, or if the woman was saving it for her eyes only.

Harry doesn’t let himself think about Nick again. He _doesn’t_. 

Later, under his duvet, while he presses hastily slicked fingers into himself and pointedly ignores his own cock, he convinces himself that he’s picturing someone totally faceless. He doesn’t imagine that it’s Nick holding him down, using Harry to get off, and leaving Harry’s orgasm as a mere afterthought. It isn’t with Nick’s face fresh in his mind that he shoots up his own stomach and chest, totally untouched, with a small bit of swelling at the base of his dick, as a somewhat unpleasant reminder of who he is.

Maybe if he keeps telling himself that he isn’t totally hung up on one person after a single hookup, it’ll stop ringing true, and will somehow magically turn him into a person who isn’t a complete and total mess.

 

***

 

Harry is the best kind of sore when his feet start to take him to the club without even realizing it at first.

He wasn’t planning on going. If anything, he wanted to go home, get changed, and cozy up with a book he bought recently.

But it seems like his body has other plans, as he’s pulled like a magnet to the all-too-familiar plain black door.

Harry is the picture of casual, striding up to the bar that Nick is manning, lube still sliding wetly in between his cheeks, like he didn’t just get fucked within an inch of his life by a newer client.

He’s a beta who likes to buy Harry a nice meal and take him back to his place where he usually eats him out before leaving bruises on Harry’s arse and hips. Not a bad deal, really. Considering that Harry also gets paid for it.

Harry has briefly considered offering to take things with him out of the professional realm. But thoughts like that never last long.

So here Harry is. Smiling like the cat that got the cream when Nick’s nose twitches before he can even say hello. It’s brief and Nick recovers quickly, not even asking before he starts to prepare a pomegranate sunrise, but it’s enough to make Harry feel bold.

“Tired tonight?” Harry asks.

Nick sighs, his voice flat and unimpressed. “Harry… don’t.”

Harry swallows, his cheeks heating. “Was just a question.”

“Yes, if you must know. Was up early this morning. One of the dogs had a vet appointment.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Is like, everything okay?”

Nick flaps a hand at him. “Everything’s fine. Just a checkup.”

Harry fiddles with the ring on his middle finger: the silver one that his sister gave him for his eighteenth birthday, a vintage piece she found by accident. “Which dog? Had the appointment, I mean.”

“Well, Pig did. But I had to take both anyway. Because they get separation anxiety or summat and I couldn’t find someone in time to watch Stinky. Which was my fault, because I’ve known about the appointment for a while. So I had both dogs running around in the back of the car, then Stinky weed at the office and it was a _nightmare_.” Nick laughs, and Harry pretends that the combination of his rambling and Nick’s now lighter mood doesn’t make something in him feel deeply satisfied.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

“They’re good dogs. Keep me company. Except for when they chew my shoes. Then I want to kill them.”

Harry forgets, sometimes, that Nick has a life outside of this place. Before he can think too hard about what Nick’s flat might look like, with his dogs and the music collection that he talks about every now and again, Nick asks, “Do you have any pets?”

“Me? No. I’ve been thinking about getting a cat, though. They probably won’t miss me very much when I have to work.”

Nick’s face doesn’t falter at the reminder of Harry’s profession. Harry appreciates it, that Nick has never treated him any differently. But Harry also can’t help the way he worries, because while Nick has never said anything to suggest it, perhaps he thinks of Harry as used goods. At least that would lend an explanation as to why he doesn’t want anything to do with Harry outside of their platonic, business transactions.

“Cats are good for that. They like their own space.”

Now the soreness in Harry’s bottom isn’t fun or sexy. It’s tinged with bitterness, that here Harry is, pining over someone who’s made it clear they’re not interested, while Harry is still carrying on doing the same things he always does. Sex for money, sit at the bar, go home alone. Like clockwork.

Harry decides that he’s going to get started on step three.

He gives Nick his credit card and impatiently waits for the receipt to print so he can sign it and leave.

With quirked brows, Nick asks, “You all right?”

“Fine,” Harry says shortly, sliding the signed copy back to Nick with the pen. “I’m actually gonna head out. It was nice to see you.”

He doesn’t turn back around to see Nick’s face. Doesn’t want to see his confusion.

The idea of walking home isn’t very appealing, and Harry has some extra money in his account, so he splurges on an Uber.

His driver isn’t very chatty, and Harry is thankful. It means that he can wallow in his own misery in the backseat while Little Mix sings about girl power over the speakers.

In his flat, Harry kicks off his shoes and throws his coat down, scraping his hair back off his forehead while he forces himself to take a few deep breaths.

It helps calm him down a little, but he’s still wound up. So he buckles down and does the dishes he’s been meaning to do all week but didn’t have the energy for. He gets lost in the monotony of soaping, scrubbing, and rinsing. By the time he’s finally done and everything is dry and put in their appropriate cupboards, he feels significantly better. More relaxed.

Still, though, there’s something itching under his skin.

Defeated but with seemingly no other options, Harry pulls up safari on his phone and pulls up Pornhub. His laptop is somewhere around here, but he can’t find the charging cord and he’s pretty sure it’s dead. So the barbarian route it is. The least he can do is plug in a pair of headphones, not wanting his neighbors to potentially hear what he’s up to.

On his couch, not bothering to take off any of his clothes, Harry adjusts his earbuds so they’re more comfortable, and hovers his thumbs over the keyboard.

He feels guilty just typing it out as he taps the keys to spell ‘alpha carrier’, his fingers shaking and fumbling a few times.

Ever since that first guy at the club used those terms, Harry hasn’t been able to get away from them. He’d seen them used in porn titles before, but he always tried to be more covert about his searches. Now, with this more direct approach, he’s found more things that are closer to what he wants.

He scrolls through the results, past titles and thumbnails that make him cringe, but stops on one that gives him pause. He clicks on it quickly, his stomach clenching with some emotion that he can’t name.

He’s seen videos like this before, too. ‘Trap videos’ of transassignment omegas that always make Harry feel equal parts intrigued and ashamed. Not ashamed of the actors or people involved, but at himself, for only being able to identify with certain aspects of the videos.

It’s crossed his mind before, wondering if he’d be happier transitioning. But for the most part, he likes his body. Likes how good it can feel. It’s his and he’s not very inclined to change it any time soon.

What he likes less are the expectations attached to it. As an alpha, why is it so wrong for him to not always want to be the one doing the fucking? To want someone to do the work for him, so that he can sink into a place where he doesn’t have to think, where he can simply take direction and be _good_?

He wants the afters, too. He wants to be held. Wants someone to _want_ to hold him. To care for him.

How can any of those things be considered bad? All because of something that he has no control over?

Numbly, he watches the video. The omega seems to be enjoying himself, bouncing enthusiastically on the other guy’s dick, who if Harry had to guess, is an alpha, judging by the size of his dick alone. And Harry hates that, too. That he himself makes the very same judgements that others make about him.

His own dick is half hard at best. He still hasn’t pushed down his jeans, or even given it a rub over the denim.

In his ears, loud, staccato moans are pumping from his earbuds, but after a few minutes, it’s like a mosquito buzzing by his head, annoying more than anything. So he takes them out, and continues watching the video with no sound.

The omega gets put on his hands and knees, his cock visible through the space between his thighs, hanging limply as he gets fucked more roughly than before. He’s so wet that it’s running down his legs and onto the sheets below him, and that sight is usually enough to get Harry more interested than he currently is. But he feels nothing.

Harry closes the window and locks his phone, tossing it onto the coffee table.

He rubs his eyes, suddenly more tired than he initially realized. He just… he doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

A full month passes before he goes back to the club. He needs time to _think_.

 

***

 

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar when he goes back.

Friday nights usually mean good money if he’s working, but he chooses to call a guy he knows and make a pickup.

He knows something is wrong as soon as he takes the pill. Heat inducers don’t usually work on alphas, but recklessly, Harry wanted to try it for himself.

His feet aren’t cooperating as he makes his way to the bar, all of his limbs more uncoordinated than usual. He nearly tips sideways off his stool as soon as he’s seated.

Nick takes one look at him and immediately comes out from behind the bar. He touches Harry’s forehead with the back of his hand and Harry melts into the coolness of it, his eyes closing without his permission. It momentarily quells the nausea he can feel building under his ribs, the lump under his tongue blissfully gone. His ears feel like they’re filled with cotton, everything around him muffled and soft.

Nick shouts something about needing a minute and practically drags Harry to the bathroom. Harry stumbles, bracing himself on the sink before he steps backwards and slides down the wall, not thinking about the dirty floor he’s sitting on.

In front of him, Nick is squatting and using the rag from over his shoulder to wipe away the sweat from Harry’s forehead. He looks panicked, his face drawn and all of his movements quick and jerky.

“Harry, love. What’s the matter?” Nick asks, his voice trembling.

Harry can’t make himself speak, doesn’t have the the brain processing power to form words. He can’t even think. But he wants to tell Nick he’s all right, that he’s fine. He mumbles something barely coherent and his eyes keep closing without him realizing, Nick’s face disappearing in brief flashes.

Nick guides Harry’s head upright as it threatens to fall forward, chin to chest.

“Did you take something? Are you— are you hurt? Did someone do something to you?”

While Harry is having an increasingly difficult time making sense of things right now, he can hear that Nick is getting more and more worried.

Clumsily, Harry reaches into his jeans pocket, where another small, circular red pill is waiting.

Harry keeps his eyes open long enough to watch as Nick looks at it, now sitting in the center of Harry’s sweaty palm. His whole arm is shaking as he holds it up for inspection.

Nick’s brows furrow in confusion. “What is this? Ecstasy? Molly? _What_?”

The nausea is back. Harry is going to be sick. He crawls as quickly as he can over to a toilet stall where he promptly vomits, most of it managing to get in the bowl, while the rest splatters across the seat and onto the floor. Nick is after him in an instant, one big hand resting on Harry’s heaving ribs, the other brushing his hair back off his forehead.

Nick sighs. “Jesus Christ, Harry.”

Harry wants to apologize, for everything. Not just this. But his body makes him keep heaving and puking, tears filling his eyes after a particularly violent gag.

Even as he finishes, after a few minutes of rest with no signs of any more rounds, Harry can’t make himself say anything. But Nick is looking at him, expectantly, disappointment and sadness etched into his features. Harry hates it.

So quietly, he tells Nick what it was, and Nick stands like he’s going to leave. He rounds quickly on his heel, though. Now he’s more angry than sad, his whole body rigid, and spits, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No! Nick, please. No,” Harry pleads. He doesn’t want that. He can’t go there and face a doctor while he explains what he’s done. He looked it up beforehand, to check if it would do any irreparable damage, and he knows that the sickness was a worst case scenario, but it will pass.

“I’m… fine. I’m gonna go home and sleep,” Harry says. He manages to stand, first using the toilet for support and then leaning heavily on the stall wall. Nick eyes him carefully, his expression unreadable.

When Harry tries to pass him, Nick holds up an arm, effectively blocking Harry from going any further. He sounds resigned when he says, “Fine. No hospital. But you’re coming back to mine. Clearly you can’t be left to your own devices.

 

***

 

Nick’s flat is exactly the type of place Harry should have expected.

He’s not sure what he imagined before, when he would allow himself to indulge in stupid fantasies, because any and all of them are immediately replaced with the real thing.

It’s clean and homey, just the perfect amount of cluttered that shows that it’s lived in.

There are little bits of Nick everywhere, from the artwork on the walls to the pictures with people that Harry assumes are family and friends.

The dogs were happy to see him, wagging their tails and barking excitedly like Harry was an old friend over to visit. They’re more calm now, snuggled up on the couch together, their dark eyes tracking his movements as he paces.

Nick is in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and digging out something for Harry to eat, despite his earlier protests.

So Harry is alone in the sitting room, shuffling around awkwardly and incredibly unsure of his place.

The heat inducer has mostly worn off by now. He mostly just feels a little shaken up from all the puking, and a little like his skin has been stretched too tight over his body.

Nick’s voice startles him a bit, makes him jump.

“Tea is ready. Do you want to get changed first? I can pop the stuff you have on now in the wash, if you’d like.” Nick won’t look at Harry as he speaks, eyes on the floor, or a spot behind Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nods anyway, and allows himself to be led down the hall. He hovers in the doorway of what has to be Nick’s room. Even though Nick brought him here, he still feels bad for being nosy, so he picks at an imaginary stain on his shirt while Nick rummages through different drawers, pointedly not looking around.

Eventually, he hands Harry a stack of different fabrics and says, “Toilet is through that door, there. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Harry changes into the clothes he’s been given — a pair of joggers and a soft black Britney Spears t-shirt, as well as a pair of white tall socks — and he tries his best to not nuzzle into the stretched collar, because everything smells overwhelmingly and excitingly of _Nick_.

Nick isn’t in the kitchen like he said he’d be, but Harry’s tea is on the worktop, so he blows on it and quickly takes a small sip. Through the back door, Harry spots Nick in the garden, smoking a cigarette. Harry doesn’t bother him, sensing that he might want to be alone.

He sits at the table and drinks, tries to nibble on a couple digestive biscuits, and asks himself what the fuck he’s doing.

Nick is being too kind to him, when all Harry has really done is be a relentless, desperate _pest_. Nick didn’t need to help him or do anything at all. And now Harry feels like he’s taking advantage.

But before he can change back into his own clothes and make his hasty escape, ready to vow that he’ll never go back to the club ever again, a door squeaks on its hinges, signaling that Nick is back inside.

“All right?” he asks, smelling of smoke and his own scent, something warmer and more soft, like a blanket that’s had cologne rubbed off onto it.

Harry lightly clears his throat, cupping his still-hot mug between his hands. “Yeah. ‘M good. Thank you. For… all of this.”

Nick drops into the seat next to him and lets out a sigh. “You scared me,” he says, and it’s like a heavy stone has been dropped onto Harry’s belly.

For lack of anything better or more eloquent, Harry says, “Oh.”

The corners of Nick’s mouth quirk up. “Yeah, _oh_ is right.” More seriously, his voice pitched lower, Nick adds, “You can’t do things like that, Harry. You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

Like a scolded child, Harry hangs his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I just… I don’t know what I was thinking. Like, I knew that it probably wouldn’t work. But I just needed to _try_.”

Very gently, Nick touches Harry’s forearm. Harry swallows.

“Do you, uhm. Would you maybe like to talk to someone? Like a doctor? About… how you might be feeling?”

Harry winces without meaning to, his insides all twisted up, different from earlier. This type of discomfort is more familiar. Because that’s the thing, really. He doesn’t _know_ what he wants. Everything is confusing and awful and he wishes, more than anything, that he could reach some type of black and white conclusion. That there was a definitive way to describe what he can’t quite articulate. But it seems as though his life is destined to be steeped in a weird middle ground that doesn’t make _sense_.

“I don’t _know_ what I want,” Harry blurts. It feels good to say it out loud, even though Nick’s eyes grow wide. But the floodgates have been opened and nothing is going to stop him.

“I don’t… I don’t _want_ to change myself. Physically, like. I’m okay with who I am. I like myself as a person. I’m not like… at odds with my body all the time. Sometimes things don’t feel quite right, and I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to deal with it. But mostly, I just want the version of myself that _I like_ , to be okay. For _everyone_. I've accepted my job for what it is. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this — this _charade_. And I don’t want to dump all of this on someone random for a fifteen-minute hookup. I want to like, _date someone_. For real. But that’s not fair to anyone, when I have all of this shit going on. I just — maybe it’s not in the cards for me.” Harry is panting by the time he’s finished. He feels like he might be sick again.

Nick is quiet for a bit. He looks like he’s considering Harry’s words very carefully. He opens his mouth only to close it again. He does this several times before he takes a deep breath.

“Harry. There’s nothing _wrong_ with you. Because if there is, then there’s something wrong with me, too. And it took me quite a bit of time to sort myself out. I’m happy with where I’m at. You will be, too. You just have to let yourself get there first.”

Harry is reeling. He blinks quickly, his eyes suddenly wet. “What?” he nearly whispers.

Nick’s hand is still resting warmly atop Harry’s arm. “You can want whatever you want. You’re allowed to feel things. Wanting… wanting to live a life that isn’t predetermined and set in stone isn’t bad. And anyone who thinks otherwise can sod off, far as I’m concerned.”

“But… but you—”

For the first time, Harry is acutely aware that Nick is older than him. It’s the way he smiles, soft and private and somehow showing years of knowledge and experience that Harry lacks. “Harry, love. Have you not listened to a word I’ve just said? I knew someone — years ago, now — who felt like they couldn’t be themself for a while. But they worked through things, and helped a lot of people along the way. They taught me quite a bit about myself. Let me know that things _aren’t_ always black and white. Being in the middle is perfectly okay.”

Harry lets those words bounce around in his head for a bit. He’s not sure how he got here, to this point where life as he knew it is slowly being dismantled to reveal a core that Harry’s maybe had wrong the entire time. It’s a lot to take in.

He feels tiredness creep on him like a summer storm. Nick seems to understand that Harry can’t respond quite yet, that it’s going to take some time.

“Why don’t we get you set up on the couch? I’ve heard from guests that it’s actually very comfy.”

The couch is comfortable, Harry notes, as he settles in under about fifty blankets with his head surrounded by fluffy down pillows.

“Do you need anything else?” Nick asks from the entrance of the hallway.

Harry yawns, half genuine and half for Nick’s benefit. “No thank you. Goodnight, Nick.”

“‘Night. I’ll be just down here. See you in the morning.”

Harry is worried that he won’t be able to sleep, in _Nick’s flat_ , with Nick only a few rooms away. After Harry has just bared his whole heart to him and Nick didn’t seem put off in the slightest. He isn’t even upset that he’s been relegated to the living room. He thinks about what Nick told him, what it might mean. He feels like if he tries to dissect it any further, it’s going to crumble like wet sand through his fingers.

Eventually, though, the events of the day catch up with him, and he falls swiftly into a deep, exhausted sleep.

A dog licking him on the face wakes him the next day. He wrinkles his nose, caught in the place between alert and slumbering, before he cracks his eyes open and blinks quickly at the brightness that meets him.

“Eurgh,” Harry croaks. “Dog, no. Stop that.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Harry manages to disentangle himself from the blanket burrito he unknowingly wrapped himself in last night. Both dogs are sitting on the floor next to the couch, watching Harry very intently and expectantly.

Harry sits up and then stands, his joints popping and cracking like he’s seventy-five rather than twenty-five. He thinks Nick won’t mind if he lets the dogs out, since they’re scratching at the back door.

With the dogs sorted, Harry goes for a wee before setting his sights on the refrigerator.

Nick is fairly well stocked (more so than Harry’s rather pitiful assortment of yogurt and milk), so Harry gets out the things he needs for omelettes and finds a suitable pan to cook with.

That’s how Nick finds him, standing at the stove, flipping eggs without a spatula because it’s more fun that way.

“Shall I tell Gordon Ramsay that he has some competition?”

Harry bites his lip to tame the smile that threatens to take over his whole face. He’s happy that Nick isn’t mad about him raiding his kitchen without asking. But for what it’s worth, the first omelette is for Nick.

“Plates? Cutlery?” Harry asks, trying his best for aloof and light.

Nick reaches into the cupboard to Harry’s right, and then into the drawer below it, two plates and two forks in-hand. Harry snags one of the plates from him and slides the omelette onto it the best he can without it ripping in half. It doesn’t look bad. It actually looks pretty fucking delicious, but that just could be Harry’s own grumbling stomach talking.

Harry hands the plate back to Nick. “For you. I just did egg and cheese because I wasn’t sure what you like.”

“Thank you. I’m usually more of a coffee and, well. A coffee and maybe something deliciously unhealthy from the bakery down the road. So this is a nice change.”

Nick eats while Harry makes his own omelette, and then Harry joins him at the table. They sit in companionable silence, nothing but the light clinks and clanks of silverware against ceramic, and Nick making occasional hyperbolic statements about Harry’s culinary skills. It’s hard fought, Harry not snorting eggs all over the table from how hard Nick makes him laugh.

After a few moment’s lull, Nick turns a bit more serious, looking at Harry earnestly to ask, “Are you feeling better today?”

Harry chews thoughtfully and swallows. “Yeah. Think so.”

“You think so or you know so?”

Harry shrugs. “Not much has changed. Like, I’m still the same. I just — I know what I want but I also don’t?”

“You don’t have to have everything sorted right away, Harry. Some people never understand things fully. Are you worried about a label or summat?”

Biting his bottom lip, Harry considers this. “I— no? No.”

“See? Then you’re halfway there already. You can just be you.”

There’s still something nagging at Harry, this little knuckle digging into his stomach.

“Why... “ Harry pauses to let out a shaky exhale. “If you think all of this is like, normal and okay. Then why’d you run away from me? After that night?”

It’s very clear that Nick wasn’t expecting that, his cheeks turning red and his shoulders creeping up towards his ears defensively.

“It— Harry. It has nothing to do with you. I told you, I couldn’t — I _can’t_ — risk my job. It’s unprofessional—”

“Then why’d you do it in the first place? Why… why’d you—” Harry cuts himself off this time, frustrated, breathing heavy. “That was the first time. That I’ve ever felt like that. With _anyone_.”

Nick is staring at Harry with very wide eyes, his expression otherwise unreadable. He keeps wringing his hands together, all long fingers and wide palms, fidgety.

He shakes his head, laughs short and self-deprecatingly. “I’m shit at relationships. Absolutely rubbish at them. And when I met you, I— I can’t explain it. Then we did that, and I thought it would be easier, to just nip it in the bud. Instead of confronting the fact that I liked you very much, even just after that first night. And I didn’t want to ruin it with anything else. Like, dating stuff.” He wrinkles his nose as he says it.

Harry swallows thickly. “Liked?” he asks quietly.

“Like. Present tense. Very much so.”

Just as Harry is about to swell up like a balloon in his seat, Nick notices the shift and holds up a hand.

“But we can’t. _I_ can’t.”

Harry feels like a toddler, ready to stomp his feet and throw a proper tantrum. “Why not? You _just_ said—”

“I also just said that I’m awful at being a boyfriend.”

“How? If you’re so bad at it, at least tell me why.”

Nick splutters for a moment. “I don’t know the _specifics_. All I know is that everyone I’ve ever dated has broken up with _me_. And I might not be the smartest person in the world but I think I can figure out that I’m the common denominator. That I’m clearly doing something wrong.”

Harry softens immediately. “Nick…”

“It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not, though. You shouldn’t — those people are stupid. They don’t know you.”

“You don’t either, love,” Nick reminds him. It’s gentle, just a matter of fact.

Harry huffs and glares at the tabletop. “I want to.”

Nick laughs then. And before Harry can ask him what could possibly be funny right now, Nick says, “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right? You’re probably _the_ most persistent person I’ve ever met. And here I am, trying to push you away.”

“I really like you, Nick.”

“Are you like this with everyone who gives you a handjob?”

Harry slaps Nick’s arm, biting down on a grin. “Hilarious. Now you’re a comedian.”

“Seriously. Seems a bit impractical of you.”

“Just you,” Harry says, more seriously than he originally intended.

Nick has nice eyes, Harry notes. Big and bright. He holds Harry’s gaze for a moment before turning his head with a sniff. “Just me,” he repeats, not a question.

With his pointer finger and thumb, Harry pulls at his bottom lip like he always does when he’s nervous, a habit he’s had for as long as he can remember. He’s breathing shallowly, ready for the other shoe to drop. Preparing himself for Nick to let him down gently one last time before kicking him out of his flat. But none of those things happen.

“I really am a terrible boyfriend.”

Harry snorts. “Then don’t be my boyfriend.”

A crease forms between Nick’s eyebrows. “Excuse me? Is that not what you’ve been so valiantly trying for this whole time?”

Harry’s cheeks heat. “ _No_. Well. I mean, yes. But we don’t have to be boyfriends. We can, uh. Be friends. That get each other off occasionally.”

“Occasionally?”

“A lot. Friends who get each other off a lot.”

“So… friends with benefits?”

“Yes.” Harry nods earnestly. He’ll take what he can get, at this point.

“And what about kissing?”

“Friends can kiss.”

Nick smiles. “Mm. Indeed they can. I think I’ve kissed all my friends at least once.” Before Harry can process that, Nick adds, “What about sleeping over?”

“Friends can also sleep over, Nick. You know this.”

“Well, what about going out to dinner? Just the two of us? Where we don’t split the check and you let me pay and I take you back here and—”

“Yes,” Harry says, fingernails digging into his palms.

Nick smirks, his expression cool and even, head propped up with his hand. “You didn’t let me finish.”

“Don’t need to. Anything you want, I’ll do it.”

Nick simply looks at him. “All right then. _Friends_.”

 

***

 

Before they even start, it’s very clear that there’s nothing no-strings about their arrangement.

Harry finds himself spending more time at Nick’s flat than his own, and not just for sex. They have dinner together, start sleeping in the same bed, go grocery shopping on Saturday afternoons. But neither of them address the fact that they’re _dating_.

Their intimacy seems to be riding the fine blade of a sword. Or maybe they’ve both just built it up in their heads that way. Because everything is so easy between them. Like two peas in a _Bake Off_ -obsessed and long-limbed pod. They don’t need to put a label on it. Harry is perfectly content with the way things are, and he has no plans on disrupting it.

The sex is phenomenal, too. Nick teaches Harry a lot of things. Stuff that he’s learned over years of trial and error in figuring out his own likes and dislikes. Nick makes sure that Harry knows he’s allowed to say no to things, that he’s allowed to have a say.

At first it makes Harry panicky; he’s spent so long catering to other people’s interests that he feels strange having it turned around completely on himself. He has a hard time asking for things, afraid of what Nick might think. But Nick, as it turns out, is game for almost anything.

Nick also doesn’t mind that Harry still comes home smelling like other people, neck marked with a bite that’ll fade within the hour, but still a mark nonetheless. Some days are better than others. Like when Harry has a client that doesn’t get him off, or doesn’t have the opportunity to before their time is up, and Harry slinks back to Nick’s flat, on edge and a little irritable but ready for whatever Nick has to offer.

Sometimes Nick will tsk, say something like, “Oh, love. Let me take care of you,” and then finger Harry within an inch of his life. Other times, he’s less sympathetic, pushing Harry up against the nearest available surface and relentlessly eating him out until he’s on the verge of tears, and only after they’re cleaned up and in bed does he ask, “Was that okay?”

He never apologizes for Harry’s profession. Never says anything to imply that he pities him. And Harry is beyond thankful for it. He’d give Nick the world if he could. Cradle it in his palms to say, “Here, this is for you.”

The first time Harry fucks Nick is on one of Harry’s days off. No clients. No making up for orgasms lost. Nothing to compete with, even though there’s not really a competition to begin with.

Nick isn’t often nervous, but Harry watches as he weighs his words carefully, wringing his hands together where they’re both lounging in bed.

“How— how do you feel about, uhm. Topping. When you’re not at work.” Nick says quietly.

Harry reaches out and puts his hand over Nick’s thigh. “Are you like. Asking? In general, or…”

“Well, both I suppose. But mostly,” Nick pauses to clear his throat. “Mostly to see if you’d want to. With me, specifically.”

Nick makes a sound of surprise into Harry’s mouth as Harry lunges for him. Their lips part with a wet pop.

With his hands on either side of Nick’s face, thumbs stroking over his stubbly cheeks, Harry says, “Nick. Nicholas. You — you’re beyond good to me. You put up with all of my weird shit. You treat me like a _human person_. And you’ve never, _ever_ made me feel bad for being myself. You can ask me for anything. As long as it isn’t like, a million pounds. Because I don’t have that at the ‘mo.”

Nick wrinkles his nose. “That was sappy, even for you. But thank you. You’re a gift. Even if you do put too much sugar in your tea.”

Harry kisses him again, warm and soft. “I don’t mind, for the record. _Topping_. I like, want to, actually.”

“Interesting. Because you see, I’m in a bit of a dilemma. Namely, I have this overwhelming desire to sit on your cock.”

Harry practically chokes, his whole face going beet red in an instant. “I— yes. That. Okay.”

Harry’s life ends up being changed forever. As it turns out, being held down while Nick rolls his hips and clenches around him is almost as good as being held down and fucked. Harry makes Nick come two times and has never been happier in his life.

That is, until Nick, lying next to him and still panting, says, “Well we’ve done this a bit backwards, haven’t we?”

Still dopey from his orgasm, Harry furrows his brows, confused. “What?”

Nick flaps a hand at him. “You know. Most people meet each other, start dating, and then do the sex thing. We messed up the order a bit.”

Harry sits up so quickly he gets woozy for a second. He narrows his eyes at Nick. “What’re you saying?”

“That you’re kinda like my boyfriend. Properly. And now, since you’ve _deflowered me_ —”

“You were _not_ a virgin, Nick. Pretty sure of that,” Harry interrupts, trying to ignore the way his voice is shaking.

“Semantics. But as I was saying. I think it’s about time we made it official.”

Harry tests the words out in his mouth, clutching the duvet in a death grip. “Boyfriends.”

Nick props himself up on his side, a hand under his chin with the sheets pooling at his waist. “Whaddya say, Styles? Ready for excessive emoji conversations and frankly disgusting amounts of PDA?”

“You already do both of those things,” Harry reminds him.

“Sounds like you’re prepared, then.”

Harry can’t fight his smile. “Of course. Idiot.”

 

***

 

“You okay, love?”

Harry curls his fingers into the cool, white sheets underneath him. He’s up on his hands and knees, in the middle of Nick’s bed, with Nick himself behind him, hands presumably poised and ready to touch.

The onset of his rut is making Harry feel too hot everywhere, from the ends of his toes to the tips of his ears. He inhales shakily and lets it out slowly, trying to gather himself.

“Yeah,” he says softly, and adds, “Please.” He drops his head in between his shoulders, closing his eyes.

Against Harry’s heated skin, Nick’s fingers are cool and soothing and more than welcome. He starts with a gentle pass up the backs of Harry’s thighs, ghosting over the soft hair there and making goose pimples radiate over his whole body.

Nick’s fingers retreat, only to come back and grip both of Harry’s cheeks firmly, squeezing and digging blunt fingernails into his soft flesh, making it undulate in response. Nick pulls Harry’s cheeks apart to reveal his hole, but quickly lets go completely.

“Are you wet for me?”

Harry isn’t. Not yet. His cock is hard and reaching up towards his heaving belly, likely drooling onto the sheets. But that’s not what Nick is talking about, and it’s also not Harry’s concern right now.

He must take too long to answer. Nick rubs his flank gently and leans down to kiss one of the dimples in Harry’s lower back. He keeps his mouth there, whispers, “I’ll get you wet, love. Make you feel good.”

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat. He’s still getting used to this, having a partner that understands him, one who always seems to know just what to say and when. It’s all-consuming, like staring at the sun. This bright, white hot feeling that can be overwhelming sometimes. Still, Harry doesn’t try to hide the way Nick’s words make him shiver.

He hears some faint rustling as Nick gets things ready, the supplies that he had carefully laid out on the bed earlier, when Harry was already in position. The illusion is certainly part of it, even though there are some parts that simply are what they are.

But Harry can have this. Nick, slowly and carefully applying a liberal amount of slick to the outside of Harry’s hole before inserting the smooth, rounded tip of the syringe inside, just barely working past the muscle, letting Harry adjust for a moment.

Harry holds his breath. Waits for Nick to push down on the plunger that forces the first gush of lube into his willing body before releasing it in a choked moan. It’s cool at first, but warms up quickly. Different from when Nick comes inside of him. He loves it, though. The way it feels. What it _means_.

“Good boy,” Nick says, as he pulls the syringe out.

Dropping to his elbows before fully flattening his shoulders to the mattress, Harry says, “More. Please.”

Nick smoothes a hand up Harry’s back, almost to his neck. “Always so polite.”

The second load doesn’t feel much different from the first. It’s cold for a second, and then Harry can’t even tell that he’s getting fuller, except for the telltale trickle that travels over his perineum and onto his balls as Nick pulls the syringe out again.

It’s getting harder and harder to focus with rut hormones pickling Harry’s brain. His neglected cock is aching between his legs, the line between nausea and want growing hazy as his arousal balloons in his pelvis.

Nick’s fingers are on him again, gliding through the slickness of Harry’s crack, circling over where he’s still tight and unstretched, dipping inside briefly and making Harry rock backwards in search of more, a whine tumbling from his open lips.

“Really wanna fuck you, sweetheart. Love fucking you. My good, tight boy.”

Hot tears spring to Harry’s eyes. He doesn’t look back at Nick, but he doesn’t turn his face into the sheets, either. Nick is well used to this by now, knows that Harry feels good, and will feel even better when he makes good on his words.

“Can you say it, Harry? Can you ask me to fuck you?”

Harry shoves his hips and arse back, but only manages to brush against Nick’s thighs and hard cock. He doesn’t have the coordination to reach behind himself and use his hands.

Nick squeezes Harry’s calf and uses his knees to spread Harry’s legs apart wider, shuffling forward. He presses the head of his cock against Harry’s hole and holds it there before dragging it up and down. Harry clenches and feels pride surge through him at Nick’s answering grunt.

It becomes clear that Nick is still waiting for Harry to respond, though. He doesn’t progress things further, just keeps sliding his dick through Harry’s crack and angling like he’s going to push inside but quickly drawing away.

Frustrated and sweating, beads of moisture running over his temples and dappling his bare back, Harry chokes out, “Fuck me. Need you. Fuck me, _please_.”

Nick makes good on Harry’s request, sinking in slow and steady until the front of his pelvis is flush with Harry’s arse. The initial slide in always feels a little strange, a little not right, despite Harry knowing that he wants it and that it feels good. Rut and his lack of being properly stretched only intensifies that not right feeling, as his body locks up a bit more than it usually would; he has to try extra hard to focus, reminding himself to relax and bear down. He repeats to himself in his head that this is good, this is okay, even if it burns and stings and hurts. He just wants to be good for Nick. Tight and wet.

Nick has become very well-versed in Harry’s minute reactions. He’s right there, gripping Harry’s waist, rubbing circles into the arch of his spine, whispering soothingly.

Harry breathes, lets himself feel every centimeter of Nick inside of him, still perfectly unmoving. He waits for Nick to take the lead, likes it when Nick goes too fast sometimes, confident that Harry can take it.

But even Harry wiggling his hips doesn’t get Nick to pull back or thrust forward. So he shifts on his knees until Nick’s cock starts to drag out, slamming back hard when just the tip is resting inside him. It’s good, but it isn’t _enough_.

“Nick,” Harry whimpers.

He’s met with silence. The only form of acknowledgement he gets is Nick thumbing in between his cheeks, feeling out where Harry is stretched tightly around him.

Harry swallow thickly. “Please.” His voice is reed thin and shaking.

This time it’s Nick who draws out and pushes forward, smoother and firmer than Harry managed on his own. Harry’s eyes practically roll back in his head, the friction near unbearable, dragging at Harry’s insides even with how wet he is.

Harry’s knees start to slip after a few thrusts, his thighs spreading wider and changing the angle. The first real brush of his prostate happens at the same time the head of his cock brushes against the sheets below him. He moans as his whole lower body clenches, unsure if he’s trying to get away from the stimulation, or get more of it.

Nick solves his problem for him, easily lifting Harry’s hips again and starting to rabbit against him, the loud slap of skin on skin echoing around the room. Harry bites down on the pillow under his head, tries to muffle some of the louder sounds that keep spilling out of his mouth. It’s so good, the way Nick is fucking him, but there’s still that lingering undercurrent of too much, too tight, too fast.

He throws an arm out behind himself, grips whatever he can reach; his fingernails sink into Nick’s thigh, scratching their way upwards as he grasps at Nick’s stomach, feeling out the hair that covers his belly.

Nick is squeezing Harry’s hips, hard enough that he’ll have pink marks later, might even bruise slightly so that he can be reminded for the next few days.

When Nick pulls out, Harry whines in protest, craning his neck around to see what’s happening, but Nick just pushes his head back down, toeing the line of gentle and forceful. He arranges Harry’s body how he pleases, flattening his hips down so his cock is sandwiched between his belly and the sheets, straightens his legs out. The relief in his hip joints is instantaneous. He allows himself to relax for a moment, wipes the sweat from his brow.

With Nick’s thighs now on either side of Harry’s, Nick pushes back in, not bothering for slow this time. It’s different this way, feels tighter and like Nick is even deeper than before. Harry briefly worries that Nick might literally be rearranging his organs, but he quickly realizes how silly that is and lets out a short huff of laughter that tapers into a moan as Nick nudges directly against his prostate with a firm stroke.

“All right, babe?”

A shiver runs down Harry’s spine at the juxtaposition of Nick’s sweet voice and the way he’s relentlessly slamming against Harry’s arse. Harry tenses his thighs, straightening them out even more to help intensify his own pleasure. Nick must catch on to what he’s doing, because he presses his thighs against the outside of Harry’s, forcing them together more tightly.

Harry can only handle the position for so long, though. After a particularly well-aimed thrust, he slams his open palm down against the mattress and pants, “Close, close, _close_.”

Nick pulls out, and this time, Harry is thankful for the loss. He can already feel how sore he’s going to be tomorrow; Nick is never anything but thorough when he fucks Harry, rut or not. Harry steadies himself, making a conscious effort to slow his breathing even though his skin is still prickling with the approach and retreat of orgasm.

Slowly, he gets his knees back under himself, returning to where he started, with his arse tilted up and his upper body collapsed. Nick drags his finger down Harry’s crack, over the hot skin of his hole, sensitive and dilated slightly. He slips his finger inside, crooks it a bit, and adds a second.

Wordlessly, Nick keeps steady pressure on Harry’s spot, massaging rather than thrusting. Harry can hear the slickness of it, the wet noises that are loud enough to reach his ears. He wonders what it looks like, if Nick is enjoying the view. Just in case, he uses one of his own hands to pull his arse cheek to the side, exposing more of his skin to the cool outside air.

Nick takes his fingers out, wipes the wetness on the inside of Harry’s thigh and leans down to bite the center of Harry’s cheek, right next to his fingers. Harry sucks in air through his teeth, clenches involuntarily.

Then there’s some faint rustling behind him. The sound of the lube cap being opened and closed. Nick reinserts the syringe and slowly pushes in a new tube full.

Harry doesn’t protest. Until Nick flops down next to him on his back and says, “C’mere. Keep it inside. Want you to ride me.”

With all the force he can muster, Harry tightens down as he carefully adjusts himself over Nick’s hips, using Nick’s chest for leverage, his fingers spread out and scratching through the hair there. Nick doesn’t offer much assistance, settling with his hands behind his head, the picture of leisure.

So it’s up to Harry to reach behind himself and line Nick’s cock up. For his troubles, he takes his time — holding his palm flat over the shaft while he rises up on his knees and sinks back down, letting Nick fuck through his crack in a pantomime of what they could actually be doing. Nick looks entirely unbothered, his breath only hitching once.

But Harry isn’t just teasing Nick, he’s teasing himself, too. So he tilts his hips and sinks down for real this time, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as he bottoms out.

“Christ,” Nick says, hands flying up to Harry’s waist, creeping upwards to thumb over his nipples that are pink and stiff and begging for attention.

Harry keeps himself wedged on Nick’s cock, stuffed full, as he moves his hips in small circles, searching for the perfect angle to get up against his spot. His cock is weeping, foreskin fully retracted, as a trickle of moisture rolls past the head and onto the shaft. The base has started to swell just ever so slightly.

Nick meets his eyes. “Want me to touch you, love?”

It’s hit or miss, whether or not Harry wants his cock touched during rut. This is only their third time spending Harry’s with each other, and it’s been a learning experience for both of them. Harry appreciates that Nick always asks, even when Harry tells him to be rough, to take when he wants.

Harry shakes his head. It’s not his main concern right now. He’ll see how he feels after this first orgasm is done and out of the way. Which is becoming a more urgent concern, the longer he grinds against Nick.

The friction is mind-melting. He needs— he’s not sure. But he switches to more of a bounce, leaning forward to meet Nick’s mouth in a surprisingly sweet kiss.

“Are you close?” Nick asks.

Harry can only nod, his movements getting more frantic. Nick bends his knees and starts to meet Harry halfway, their skin meeting noisily. Harry loses all sense of pretense, his muscles no longer cooperating as he thrusts his dick into open air, letting Nick fuck him like a ragdoll.

When he finally comes, it’s like having an ocean wave take him under. He can’t hear anything except the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, all of his focus narrowing to the expression on Nick’s face, wide-eyed with his mouth dropped open. Time slows down. His fingers and toes go numb as he curls them.

His cock is making a proper mess of Nick’s belly and chest, still spurting wildly as his faculties mostly return and he makes his way back down from the peak. He claws at his own thighs until he can’t anymore, finally giving in and wrapping his hand around the base where his knot is swelling rapidly. He holds onto it tightly, seeking a bit of relief, half-choked whimpers forcing their way from his throat, his whole body twitching erratically.

“Shh,” Nick soothes. He rubs his thumb over the top of Harry’s wrist, but doesn’t try to replace his hand around his knot. He just lets Harry be.

It takes Harry a long time to get to a point where he can speak again. Eventually, his dick stops shooting and slows down to a sluggish flow of mostly clear come. Harry keeps gripping himself, half shielding and half for comfort, but he wiggles his hips to remind both of them that Nick is still hard inside him.

“Want you to come. Want you to knot me,” Harry slurs, voice thick like molasses.

Nick barely bats an eye. “Okay,” he says, and slowly starts to thrust up again.

With Harry loose and pliant, it’s only a few minutes before Nick is whispering, “Coming— gonna come.”

It hurts when Nick fully pushes his knot in — Harry’s body isn’t _meant_ to take it — but the satisfaction he gets from it when it’s all the way inside is enough to have Harry nearly coming again, his whole body wracked with shivers. His own knot has started to go down, so he lets go of it in favor of leaning down so him and Nick are chest to chest, where he tucks his face into Nick’s neck and _bites_ , needing an outlet.

Nick kneads at the planes of Harry’s back, sliding over the dampness of his sweat, pressing into tender muscles. He kisses the side of Harry’s head, noses at him until Harry picks his head up and kisses him again.

“Love you,” Nick says. It isn’t the first time, but it still makes Harry feel over the moon.

He’s tired — wants nothing more than to be able to take a three-day long nap. But this is just the beginning, and the threads of round two are starting to wind their way through his body.

“Love you.” Harry strokes a finger over Nick’s cheek. Looks him in the eye as he says, “Wanna fuck you. So bad.” Because that’s a thing he can say to Nick and it’s _okay_. Harry is allowed to want that, too.

Nick smiles. “Gonna knot me like a good boy?”

Harry’s mouth goes dry in the best way. He takes Nick’s bottom lip in between his teeth. “Yeah,” he breathes.

And then he does.

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, [this](https://www.amazon.com/PALOQUETH-Applicator-Precision-Mess-Free-Reusable/dp/B078JLMC9H/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=lube+syringe&qid=1552028956&s=gateway&sr=8-1) is the lube syringe used, or at least something very similar. Thanks for reading!


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